


Once upon a time in Paris

by hellomrschorusgirl



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Paris, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-20 05:33:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14888579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellomrschorusgirl/pseuds/hellomrschorusgirl
Summary: Once upon a time in Paris, a young American writer meets an American banker at a bar in Montmartre after being stood up by a friend. They exchange love stories and life experience, painting the town red together. Little do they know that the next 48 hours will determine the rest of their lives.





	Once upon a time in Paris

**Author's Note:**

> 1920s AU. The prompt was “Do you think things would be different?”“How so?”

Paris, 1925

There’s nothing more charming than Paris in the rain. You’re waiting for an acquaintance at a local bar, your red lips taking a sip from your glass of red wine. The guy next to you is rolling his second cigarette, a cloud of smoke framing his razor sharp jawline. His blue eyes flirt wordlessly with the waitress, her pursed lips beckoning a wink from the handsome stranger.  
You ask the same waitress for another glass, her judging look enough for you to hold back on her tip later this evening. How come a woman can’t drink a glass of wine on her own?   
“Don’t mind her,” the man chuckles softly while balancing the cigarette between his lips, lighting a fire and blowing a small ring of grey smoke. “You waitin’ for a fella?”  
Shaking your head no, you tell him you’re waiting for a lady friend, not that it’s anything of his business. But there’s something about those baby blues that make you melt. “She’s already an hour late, so I think she’s a no show.”  
“I can keep you company, if you’d like,” he offers with a boyish smile. There’s no flirtation behind his proposition, just kindness and curiosity to get the know the lady with the red lips. “Until you finish your glass of wine.”  
After some careful consideration and waiting until the waitress has brought you your beverage, you eventually agree and he slides over to sit on the other end of your table. He doesn’t face you directly, yet chooses to turn his chair 90 degrees, resting his back against it so he has a good view of the rain cascading down on the city of lights.  
Sometimes his eyes dart back to yours and after a moment of silence, he asks you about your love life. “You’re not shy of the personal questions, aren’t you?,” you laugh softly as he runs a hand through his messy hair. “If you must know, I have a fella, yes.”  
Not directly inclined to give up more information, you’re content with another sip from your wine, until you catch him staring at you from the corner of your eye. He is interested in you for reasons yet unknown to you.   
Fishing out a small mirror from your purse, you open it for the man and show the picture you’ve hidden inside. “His name is Steve. He’s a painter here in Paris.” He takes a quick look at the picture and the blond man it features. “Only reason I came to Paris. I don’t really enjoy it here, so if it wasn’t for love, I would’ve stayed in London.”  
“He’s handsome,” the stranger nods, taking a deep drag of his cigarette as he contemplates what you said about London. He keeps the question that arises at the back of his mind.   
Another customer enters the bar and greets you both, his eyes lingering a little longer on you. He makes a suggestive sound, wiggling his eyebrows and licking his lips. The stranger however sticks up for you and tell him to move along.  
“Thank you,” you smile gratefully, “I don’t think we’ve introduced ourselves actually.” You extend your hand. “I’m Y/N.”  
“Bucky.” He shakes your hand and grins. “And you’re welcome. No matter how pretty you might be, guys should keep their hands off you anyway.”  
He’s got a good heart, this Bucky, and from behind your glass of wine you take a closer look at him. He’s wearing a single breasted jacket, featuring three buttons up front and made from expensive and undoubtedly exquisite wool. His pants are made from wool based flannel and fit snugly in the right areas.   
“You got a lady?,” you finally shoot back the same question.   
He hums first, his eyes crinkling in mischief. “Yeah, I got a wife. She’s back in New York. Wanda’s a sweet thing, wouldn’t harm a fly.”  
You have a feeling that there’s more to this story, but you don’t want to press. “What brings you to Paris then?”  
“Another lady,” he answers with a bashful smile. He’s not ashamed about it, nobody who knows who he is in Paris so nothing that will chase him back to New York. He is however very shy at heart, the attention of the females something he will never adjust to. “Natasha. Russian. Exotic dancer at Moulin Rouge.”  
Of course the other woman is an exotic dancer. It’s one of the most frequent reasons men prolong their stay in Paris. Thought you’re a little disappointed, you had higher hopes for this man. “I see,” is your simple reply, your mouth a little dry from the poignant red wine. Maybe you should’ve gone for white after all.  
It’ has started to rain less, the drops reduced to some mild drizzling. You still need an umbrella if you wish to face this kind of winter weather, but you’re in no rush and willing to wait until it rains no more. It seems Bucky feels the same and you strike up a comfortable conversation about everything and nothing.  
You tell Bucky you’re an American living in London, since you moved their with your brother for an arranged marriage. Unfortunately, the woman he was supposed to marry died in a hit and run. Your brother returned to the States, but you fell in love with the city and decided to stay. There you met your ex-fiancé, a British professor in sexology.   
“He was not free spirited and wild and exciting like you’d expect. He wasn’t obsessed with sex. That’s more Sigmund Freud’s thing,” you explain casually while searching for that old, discoloured polaroid you keep at the bottom of your purse. When you find it, the photograph shows an entirely different type of man.  
“Doctor Stephen Strange.” Bucky reads his name aloud. “He looks like he’s a very serious person.”  
“He was and I didn’t really enjoy that. I was going to marry him for his money.” You half expect him to be taken aback by your admission, yet on the contrary, your honesty charms him in ways you can’t anticipate. “My family isn’t wealthy, Bucky. Both parents are dead. My brother has debts, gambling debts. As for my sister, she is a troubled soul. In and out of the hospital. They say she’s hysterical. I say she has a broken heart.”  
Bucky chuckles at your comment, knowing the feeling all too well. “I once fell in love with a girl like you,” he whispers while pressing out his cigarette, locking eyes with you. “Clever, beautiful, witty,…” Giving him a flattered smile, you feel the blush on your cheeks intensify.  
“But she was poor and my family was poor, too. So her parents didn’t agree with our relationship. They sent her away.”   
A pang of regret hits him hard, and you must admit the story doesn’t leave you untouched either. “I found myself a new girl, Wanda, my wife. I love her as a little sister, not as a lover. Just like I love Natasha like a lover, but not as a wife.”  
“I always wondered what happened to her,” he mumbles under his breath, more to himself than to you.  
Reaching out to gently rest your hand on his as a sign of sympathy, he squeezes your fingers shortly before retracting his hand again. Your touch only adds more insult to injury. “I hope your Steve treats you right,” he swiftly changes the subject back to you.  
The ball is in your court again, but you don’t intend to reveal too much unless he shows you his cards as well. Chuckling lightly, you empty the remainder of the wine left in your glass and ask Bucky to buy you another drink. He orders no red wine, but a glass of cognac for the two of you.   
“You strike me as a lady who can hold her liquor well”, he notes with a dark glaze surrounding his pupils.  
Thanking him for the drink, you have a taste first before indulging him with another tale. “He makes good money with his art. He isn’t famous, but he is respected in the artistic scene here in Paris. I’m hoping to convince him to go back with me to New York, but he isn’t too keen on that.”  
Bucky shoots you a confused look. “Why? It makes sense if he’s a Parisian, but if he’s an American like yourself, then what’s holding him back?”  
Sighing deeply and throwing a quick look at the time on your watch, you figure you better strike your acquaintance off your list of people you like to keep close. “Steve used to be a soldier. A captain. He left the army after his best girl got killed. She was one of the first women in the army that weren’t a nurse but a superior officer.”  
He notices the way you hesitate when you say ‘his best girl’, obviously not qualifying yourself under the same term. He wonders what’s the reason behind your particular choice of phrasing. “We both loved people we would’ve liked to spend the rest of our life with, but were taken from us.”  
It’s a conclusion, not a question for you or an observation of your current situation. You smile sourly, acknowledging the tragedy of your lives. Even though you don’t know Bucky and he doesn’t know you, there’s this invisible connection between you, founded by similar life experiences and strengthened by the wounds of love.  
“What was her name?,” you ask gingerly, not out of fear he won’t tell you or leave you to your own devices. You are afraid you’ll rub more sault in an already open wound.  
He casts his eyes downwards as he says “Esmeralda.”  
“Sebastian,” you admit in an equally soft voice.  
Your eyes meet halfway, a sad glint to them. You don’t speak, you don’t respond to the silent emotions brewing inside. Instead, Bucky suggests to take you out and show you Paris. “As much as I enjoy talking to you, I see it’s stopped raining and my feet are aching to get out.”

***

Bucky pays for the drinks, including yours, and tells the waitress to keep the change. You were thinking of holding off on a tip as she wasn’t very nice to you, but seeing her face go from smug and condescending to shocked and disappointed when she watches you leave with Bucky certainly makes up for it.  
You know the streets of Paris by heart yet blindly follow Bucky as he grabs your hand and walks with you through the dingy streets of the red quarter to the bridge over the Seine all the way to the Eiffel Tower. He shows you that the charm of Paris lies not in the architectural Art Deco style or the croissants and the fashion. Those dingy streets hide a lot of magic, like the painters in a remote courtyard trying to capture the splendour of Paris by night with their pencils, the patrons at a gentleman’s club who watch the ladies to drown their loneliness, or the street lights that hide the stolen looks from young lovers and runaways.  
So when you reach the Eiffel Tower and sit down at a nearby bench, Bucky winds his arm around your shoulders and pulls you close. There’s obvious chemistry there, his boyish demeanour far removed from the reserved aristocrat he was at the bar. “How long do you intend to stay in Paris?”  
As your eyes follow the curves of the Eiffel Tower, you answer honestly. “A month or so. Maybe more, maybe less. Depends on how Steve’s art show goes.”  
Bucky hums softly, taking a strand of your hair between his fingertips and playing with it as his eyes smile down at you. “I’m here for two more days.”  
There’s an unspoken invitation lacing his words, the tension between you palpable and so think you can cut it with a knife and have a slice as a late dinner. “I’ve never seen Paris like this before. Thank you for showing,” you smile politely back at him. You are not a mistress or a one-night-stand, though the offer does seem appealing to you.  
“Have you ever seen Paris in any other way?,” he scoffs mockingly, shaking his head with a laugh until the corners of his mouth curl downwards again. “I’m leaving for New York the day after tomorrow and it would be wonderful if I could spend some more time with you tomorrow.”  
He squeezes your shoulder, his gaze intense. “Please.”   
With a pleading voice, he coaxes you into his world. A world of richness as he acquired money as a banker, a world of pleasure as he lives for the favours of the body, and a world of sweetness and safety because he still believes in love.  
You cup his cheek, gently touching his skin and sighing when he closes his eyes to lean into your touch. “Okay. Meet me at the fountain of the Jardin de Tuileries, tomorrow, at noon.”  
As he opens his eyes again, they are loving and appreciative of your willingness to indulge him. “I will be there,” he promises, pressing a kiss to the palm of your hand.  
“I will be wearing a red dress, in case you won’t recognise me.”  
“I will always recognise you.”   
Ah, his flattery is like an arrow of Cupid to the heart. You contemplate parting ways with a kiss, though it would mean breaking your promise of faithfulness to Steve. You’re already living a life of shame by fleeing to Paris to be with a painter. Then again, you’ve already bent your vow by agreeing to meet with Bucky.   
He offers to walk you back, but the walk to your apartment and Steve’s art studio is very short and some people might recognise you and ask questions you don’t like. “I’ll be fine. Just don’t be late.”  
With a nod, you take his hand and pull him up with you. After another goodbye, you decide to leave first, knowing his eyes will follow you until you’re well out of his sight.

***

The next morning you wake up to some rustling in the supplies room. Steve must’ve gotten up early to paint the sunrise, so you cover yourself in blankets and comforters and head out to the living room. The apartment is full with tubes of colourful paint and numerous canvases, so that Steve has every opportunity to express his creativity.   
“Steve?,” you call out for him, pouring a glass of water to help with the nerves. You have a clandestine rendezvous today and you want to get ready as swiftly and as undisturbed and unnoticed as possible.  
His voice replies from the art room. “In here!”  
The blond is covered in paint splatter and the painting on the canvas is nearly finished when you walk in. Dropping the blankets, you wind your arms around his neck and kiss the top of his head, then peppering kisses down his cheek.   
“Are you naked?,” he chuckles softly, innocently even while finishing up on the Parisian skyline.  
“I am,” you purr into his ear, seducing him with your tone. “And it’s been a while since you and I made love in this room…”  
Knowing he will decline your proposition, as he usually does while he’s in an artistic rut, you just slide into his lap and press a proper kiss to his lips, savouring the warmth of his embrace. “I’m sorry,” he whispers apologetically, “Maybe later.”  
Slipping from his lap, you make your way to have breakfast and then clean yourself up, making yourself presentable for Bucky’s keen eyes. You choose red lips again, to go with your red dress, and take out the pearl earrings your mother gifted you with in her will.  
You tell Steve your acquaintance couldn’t make it yesterday but called the bar to cancel and to make a new appointment with you. It’s a smooth lie, one that doesn’t leave you with a heavy heart. “I will probably end up sleeping at her place this evening,” you add casually, preparing for the best and the worst scenarios. “But I will be back for lunch tomorrow.”  
“Perfect,” he mumbles in concentration, eyes focused on perfecting the tip of the Eiffel Tower.  
On your walk to the fountain, you think back on how you and Steve met for the first time and how different it is from your meeting with Bucky. As a writer, you publish your books under a male pseudonym because sadly, people don’t read books written by a female author. A select group of intellectuals know about your secret and one of them was the Parisienne Justine.  
Justine invited you to her home a few weeks after you published your newest novel. She introduced you to Marie, a sultry and curvy young woman that often models for painters. One of these painters was Steve. What was supposed to be a night with like-minded people discussing literature, ended in you posing in the nude for the eyes of your new blond beau.  
From afar, you can see Bucky waiting for you. As he turns around, his eyes breaks into a relieved smile when he realises you did show up. Presses a kind kiss to his cheek and giving him a short hug, you tell him he looks quite dapper again. “You clean up very well.”  
What follows is an exchange of looks, your bodies tense and your minds confused. What exactly did you agree to? You didn’t just agree to a meeting with a stranger, just to show him Paris. No, you agreed to a meeting with a stranger who will take you to his place for sex.  
“Where are you staying?” There’s nothing holding you back from asking this question, and he isn’t surprised by your bluntness either.   
“It’s a ten minute walk. The woman I’m renting it from isn’t going to be back until tomorrow evening, so we have it all to ourselves.”  
Gently pressing his hand to the small of your back, Bucky guides you to his apartment. He made sure to have it in an impeccable state, a bottle of red wine ready on the living room table with glasses and some French cheese. He is prepared for whatever follows.  
As he takes your coat, you sit down on the couch and allow your eyes to flicker to the bedroom door that is slightly ajar. There are windows that go all the way from the floor to the ceiling, allowing a beautiful view over Paris. When Bucky pours you a glass, he comments on the panoramic view with a cheeky laugh.  
“It will feel like making love to Paris and not to me,” he adds with a wink, clinking your glass with his.  
Now this comment catches you off guard, as you haven’t really discussed it so openly. But now that the subject is on the table, you might as well get it out of the way. “I want to see you, I want to look into your eyes.”  
“Missionary then,” Bucky chuckles, “You on top or me?”  
“You can be on top if you want. I like to switch.”  
Other details are discussed in a very business-like manner, from foreplay to aftercare. You compromise sometimes, but mostly have the same opinions. So when you’re both relaxed and calm, the wine helping with the nerves, you agree it’s time to move things to the bedroom.  
Bucky asks you to turn around so he can unzip your dress. His hands smooth over your shoulders first before he pulls down the zipper, a soft sigh leaving your lips when the dress flutters down to the floor. When you want to face him again, his hands stay on your hips, Bucky’s lips slanting over your shoulder and up to your neck, inhaling your tender perfume of roses and daffodils.  
“You are so sexy…,” he mutters to your pulse point. His tone is very affectionate, very considerate and it remains that way the entire time you are together.  
While laying in his arms, resting your head on his chest and tracing the freckles on his skin with your fingertips, you feel like this is the very point your life has been leading to. “Do you think things would be different?”  
“How so?,” he questions, his eyes curious and confused. “What do you mean, different?”  
It’s on the tip of your tongue, and you have to bite down hard to sound as casual as possible because if you show him your true intent, perhaps this day will lead to a sour goodbye. “I mean – If we had met the way we did, but neither of us was yet committed to someone else… do you think things would be different.”  
Bucky sighs deeply, brushing away some hair from his eyes and pecking the crown of your hair. “Maybe, but there’s no point in talking about that now, is there? It’s just you and me. Until tomorrow morning.”  
“And then we each go our own way,” you whisper sadly, yet Bucky lifts up your chin and smiles just as sadly back at you.  
“Don’t be disappointed, sweet thing. You have your man and I have my wife. And should we meet in New York, we can arrange a day like this again. Promise.”  
Despite his good intentions, you know for a fact that this ideal scenario will never occur. Yet you smile and kiss him passionately, showing your true emotions one last time, making love until dawn and you will have to leave.

***

Steve wanted to stay in Paris and you wanted to go back to New York. Eventually you will settle in the middle and fly back to London. Six months in London, where Steve will be staying with you, and six months in Paris, where you will be staying with Steve. It’s a neat arrangement, but not one you’re looking forward to.  
Bucky flew back to New York and found out his wife is four months pregnant. They conceived a child right before he set off to Paris. She is a good soul and he wants to be there for her, despite his infidelity tugging at his heartstrings and demanding him to go back to Paris and be with you instead. But that’s not what is the right thing to do in a situation like this.  
Five years later, you are still with Steve but you are in New York now. As anticipated, your six months switch didn’t work out as planned and Steve grew tired of travelling back and forth, so he gave in to your wishes and followed suit to the Big Apple. Over the past few years he has become famous and gathered a substantial wealth. You were able to pay off your brother’s debts and provide the best care for you ill sister.   
Often when you’re strolling the street of Manhattan, hand in hand with your beloved, you think back of that one time in Paris. It has even inspired you to write a novel about it, called “Once upon a time in Paris”.   
Claiming it to be entirely fictional, the story features a man and a woman from different social classes. He is a filthy rich businessman named Erik, looking for a distraction in Paris, his wife back in New York with their child. He is tired of living a predictable life and one day finds himself wandering into a simple bar at the edge of Montmartre.  
There he meets a woman, Maura, waiting for a friend of hers she hasn’t seen in a year. When her friend doesn’t show up, he offers to keep her company instead while she finishes her glass of wine. One glass of wine turns into two glasses of wine and some cognac, sharing life experiences and tales of unrequited love.  
Erik and Maura feel a connection between them and agree to act on it, but only once and in secret. After that, they return to their own lives and never speak of this night again.

***

Y/N spent the last days of her life in Paris. She wanted her daughter, Aimee, to experience the same magic as she did with Bucky. Y/N died when a bomb dropped on her building during the second World War. Aimee and Steve weren’t at home at the time and survived the attack. Together with her father, Aimee fled Paris and followed in the footsteps of her mother, writing about her life during WWII and finishing her mother’s memoires.  
The memoires were released and published a decade after Y/N died. Steve never got the chance to read them, but Aimee lived long enough to receive a letter from a certain James, who wished her the best of luck with her writing career and thanked her for keeping Y/N’s memory alive.   
James Barnes was the son Bucky Barnes, who was aware of his father’s history with Y/N. Bucky told the story to his eighteen year-old son in order to make sure he married for love and for no other reason but true love. His mother Wanda suffered from post-natal depression and took her own life when he was two years old. Bucky could’ve looked for Y/N and regretted never doing so.  
Y/N was always in his thoughts, even though they never saw each other again. He too died in the war, fighting for his country, a picture he took of a sleeping Y/N after their night of passion hidden in his breast pocket. The photograph found its way back to James and he passed it on to Aimee.  
Aimee and James remained pen pals and eventually met in person. They are now married with kids and still live in New York. They have no intention of moving to Paris, for Paris is the city of Y/N and James and nothing will ever change that.


End file.
